


Fortune's Wheel

by countessrivers



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: I also do terrible things to both norse mythology and english history in the name of entertainment, M/M, Mpreg, later on, so no real incest, tags will probably be added as the story goes on, they're not related at all in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wheel of fortune can take you very high, or it can throw you down very low. The wise say that although we all want victory, we must learn to treat both victory and defeat with indifference. Everything turns to dust, and all that we can do is endure.</p>
<p>This is an Thor AU version of The Wars of the Roses, inspired by Philippa Gregory's'The Cousins' War' series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cousin's War

The war, really, began with Thrymr, who had been made the child king of Asgard upon the death of his father. Although the affairs of the state and the governance of the Aesir-controlled Vanaheim were left to the King’s uncles, the realm soon fell into a state of poverty and corruption, with the treasury empty and each of the lords keeping their own armies. Bit by bit, Asgard lost the lands that had been hard won by the late King, for the Vanir Regent had neither the men nor the money to hold them.

Little changed when the King came of age, and was married to Freyja, the Vanir princess, for they had their favourites, and honoured them above, and at the expense of, the other lords. It was through the mismanagement and incompetence of these men that Thrymr lost all that his ancestors had conquered.

It was eight years before the Queen gave birth to a son, the crown prince Asmodr -if he was really a prince at all, for there were rumours that the Queen had taken as her lover Lord Freyr, and that it was his son the Queen had foisted upon the King.

The King himself, who had always been of a weak and cool temperament, concerned more with religion than war, fell into insanity, and spent a year seeing, hearing and responding to nothing, not even when presented with his newly born son. Thrymr’s illness, from which nothing could wake him from, would continue for the rest of his life, and this, combined with the growing corruption of the court and gentry formed a political climate that was ripe for civil war.

Odin, the Duke of Valhalla, was a close relative of Thrymr, for they were both descended from the sons of King Bor. He was married to the Lady Frigga, and had himself three sons, the eldest of which was Thor. It was during the King’s illness that Odin was named Lord Protector and given control over the council. Freyja and her infant son were excluded from interfering with the government, and were sent with the sleeping King away from court.

As Lord Protector, Odin was popular with the people, and ensured continuing support by backing his own faction, while at the same time isolating his enemies, which culminated in the arrest of the royal couples favourite, Lord Freyr. However, before he could be proceeded against, King Thrymr regained his wits and Odin and his supporters were banished from court.

The first open violent act of this so called ‘Cousins War’ occurred when Odin’s small force met those of the King at St Albans. The battle ended with a victory for Odin’s army and the death of Freyr, and numerous other Jontar lords. A fragile peace was established once Thrymr recovered from his second bout of illness, but hostilities continued until the Valhallian forces were scattered at the Battle of Blore Heath. 

Odin, along with his ally Heimdall, Duke of the Bifrost region, and his eldest son, eventually returned to Asgard and captured the King, before marching to the Capital where Odin pressed his own claim to the throne. He would, however, not live long enough to fulfil his ambition, for Odin, along with a number of his allies, was killed at the Battle of Wakefeild.

This left Thor, now eighteen years old, as heir to his father’s dukedom and possible claimant to the throne of Asgard. It was at Mortimer’s Cross, his first battle following his father’s death, that Thor, and the two armies, saw a vision at dawn of three suns in the sky, and many believed it was an omen, predicting the victory of the three living sons of Odin.

After the Capital closed its gates to Freyja and her looting army of northerners, Thor was welcomed into the city by cheering crowds and crowned king. The battle which followed, The Battle of Towton, ended with a complete rout of the Jontar forces, but with thousands dead on both sides. Many of those that survived surrendered to the new Valhallian king and swore oaths to never again take up arms against him. Thor, at the head of his victorious army, returned to the Capital for his official coronation, while the defeated Jontar king, along with his wife and son, fled the country and slowly regathered their forces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of extra universe building. Think of Asgard as a country, more than a realm, with Vanaheim as a separate one. As for the Jontar, they conquered Asgard generations before these events, but they have essentially become one people. The term 'Jontar' derives from their original land holdings and is used to refer to that section of society, as well as those who generally support Thrymr during the war, as does Odin's forces, who gain the name 'Valhallists' (like Yorkists and Lancastrians).  
> While they're not blue, and look the same as the other Aesir(general term for Asgard's inhabitants), both male and females Jontar can bear children, with the one who gave birth to the child referred to as 'mother'. This applies to all the Jontar, although by this point many have married into and had children with the other Aesir. Thor would have a very small amount of Jontar blood in him, from his ancestor, the Jontar king Bor.  
> The Aesir are pretty open with who they marry and sleep with, esspecially when half of them can have children regardless of gender. So none of that buisness with it being shameful to be'taken' by someone. There is, however, emphasis placed on chastity before marriage and shame for those who sleep around. Generally though, because there are certainly double standards, esspecially when it concerns kings (just think Medieval Europe).  
> Magic exists in this realm, although not in the way it does in the myths or the comics. It's also extremely rare and generally feared.  
> Hopefully that all makes some sort of sense. It sounded okay in my head.
> 
> Reviews, comments and questions always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are those who would call me a sorcerer, my epithet of silver-tongue is well earned, and there are others who would call me an ordinary man. I am both, and it is really no surprise, with this conflicting parentage of mine.

There are those who would call me a sorcerer, my epithet of silver-tongue is well earned, and there are others who would call me an ordinary man. I am both, and it is really no surprise, with this conflicting parentage of mine.

My father is Farbauti, Baron Rivers, and you will not find a more steadfast or loyal man in all of Asgard. He is a lord, and a landholder and true to the Jontar king.

My mother is relative of the old royal houses of Jotunheim, and a daughter of the water goddess Melusina, who’s song of warning can be heard when her heirs are in danger and her house is dying. When she was married to the King’s uncle they called her the ‘Beautiful Duchess’, and even when he died and she scandalously married his knight, she was still the Capital’s favourite.

But for all of this, I am a member of a defeated house and the mother of two fatherless boys, and so, just once, I would give everything I have and everything I am to be completely irresistible.

* * *

I am home, after so many years, back in my father’s house. While I do not want to be here, there is something comforting about being with my family in these troubled times. My boys especially, Fenrir who is nine and Jorundr who is eight, could use some comfort.

With my husband dead on the fields of St Albans, I am now penniless, for my mother-in-law refuses to pay me my dower, and in this new Asgard we have neither the means nor the influence to force her. So I have gathered up my boys along with what little I have and returned home.

It is a far more melancholy home to what I am used to. St Albans marked not only the death of my husband, but the end of our cause. My father called it a harvest, rather than a battle, and I have never seen him, or my brother Helblindi, as defeated as they were when they came home and told us that we had lost, that our king had fled, and that the Odinson was now king of Asgard. Even now, with their official pardons, and their places on the council, the word ‘traitor’ still hangs over us. My parents were, after all, the greatest lord and lady at the Jontar court.

It is at dinner that the new king is brought up – he is apparently marching to war yet again.

“You won’t have to go?” my mother asks my father. “Nor Loki or Helblindi?”

“No,” he replies. “Though I will have to send men. To be completely honest, I doubt they will want any of us there.”

I am relieved at the thought my father and brother won’t be marching off anytime soon. As for me, I have never had the taste for war, although I am deadly enough with smaller daggers and blades. Being a mother has also relieved me of a number of my martial duties.

This call to war does, however, give me an idea.

“Perhaps I shall ask King Thor to look into my dower case. I cannot see us reaching an agreement anytime soon, and my boys will be left with nothing unless I do something,” I remark as nonchalantly as I can.

“It’s a good plan. You can kidnap him as he rides by,” Helblindi suggests. “Fall on your knees to him,” he says with a lewd grin.

“My son will be doing no such thing,” my father snaps, then turns to me. “Loki, you need not worry. You can stay as long as you need, we will provide for you.”

I nod my head in acceptance and return to my dinner, though my mind is spinning with ideas on how I shall do this, and when I leave the table and head upstairs I catch my mothers gaze and immediately know she knows what I plan.

I launder and lay out my sons’ best suits and undertake the considerably difficult task of washing their hair – they are boys, and so they hate being clean on principle.

I put them to bed, telling them they will have to be up early for we are going down to the great road to see the king ride past. Once they are tucked in and drifting off, I return to my room and lay in my cold and empty bed, waiting for sleep to claim me.

* * *

I wake up early the next day and dress my sons, taking time to straighten their jackets and flatten down their hair. My own shoulder length hair is tied back and I am dressed in dark pants, boots that reach my knees and my leather doublet over my white linen shirt. Simple, but handsome, if I do say so myself. And today I need handsome.

I lead Fenrir and Jorundr down the lane and onto the great road that leads to the Capital, keeping a tight hold of their hands, because I know the minute I turn my back they will be tearing their leggings and falling in the stream and getting leaves in their hair.

I wait by the side of the road, knowing that I must capture and hold the attention of a man riding off to war. A man who has the most fair and handsome men and women throwing themselves at him constantly and who will be in no mood for beggars, much less sons of traitors. I need to make him understand, this boy, who took up arms against his own king and now rules under the thumb of ‘The Kingmaker’ Heimdall. I need to make the man whose victory has displaced and impoverished me and mine understand my fears. My fears for my sons, and the futures I cannot provide them for. My fear that I will be just another window, dependent on the pity and charity of others for the rest of my life. My fear that I will never have another child, and that my bed will remain cold.  
For the love of God, I am only twenty-seven. Shall I never again feel joy or happiness? Shall I never again be kissed? Is my life over already?

My boys are shifting, almost hopping, from one foot to another in excitement when I hear the sound of approaching horses. Though I am determined to stand and catch their attention, I back slightly to avoid being trampled as the thunderous group grows closer. 

It is Fenrir who catches sight of the blond head first, and his shout catches the man’s attention. I see him turn and spot us before he grabs his reigns and cries “Halt!” The cavalry turns and comes to such a sudden stop that dust is left billowing around us all. As it settles I find myself looking a t the man seated upon his horse, and him at me. It is quiet, quiet enough for me to hear the wind in the rushes and the sparrow sitting up in the great oak tree singing more sweetly than I have ever heard a bird sing before.

I take a step forward, pulling my sons with me, but as I open my mouth to plead my case I find, in this most crucial of moments, that all my words, everything I have practised and prepared, have failed me. The words, my most precious and deadly weapon are caught in my throat, and all I can do is look up and try to make him understand.

He makes a gesture to his men and they turn aside and move off the road into the shade. The king however jumps down and walks towards us. I am tall, but he is taller, if only by a little, and built like all the men of his line – strong and broad sholdered. To my boys he is a giant, and they crane their necks to stare at him. His blonde hair falls to his shoulders and he has such an open and smiling face, filled with easy charm and grace. This is a new kind of king, one we have not had in this country before. This is a king that people will love on sight, a king who will gain your loyalty with a smile and a clap on the back. His eyes, the bluest I have ever seen, are fixed on my face and I force myself to stare back, refusing to look away, as if I was some blushing virgin.

“Who is this?” he asks.

I still haven’t spoken, so Fenrir doffs his cap and drops to one knee. “This, Your Grace, is my mother, Loki Laufeyson. I am Fenrir, and this is my brother Jorundr.”

On my other side Jorundr, who has also gone down on one knee, whispers, “This is the king? He is the tallest man I have ever see.”

I bend at the waist in a bow, but I keep my eyes up, staring at him as a man might stare hotly at his lover.

“Rise up,” he says, low, and for only me to hear. “You have come to see me?”

“I am in need of your help. I am a widow and I cannot obtain my jointure. I have nothing, and nothing to give my sons.”  
“A widow?” He asks.

“Yes,” I reply. “My husband, Angrboda, died at St Albans.” I say this knowing it is to confess treason, and name my boys the sons of a traitor, for the king will no doubt recognise the name of the man who commanded his enemy’s cavalry. I nip at my lip, not entirely ignorant to the effect it will have, and go on. “He did his duty to the man he thought was king. My boys are innocent, they have done nothing.”

“He left you two sons?” the king says as he smiles down on my boys.

“Yes. The best part of my fortune.”

He nods as they stare up at him, before turning back to me. “I am thirsty. Is your home near by?”

“Uh…yes. And we would be honoured Your Grace but…” I break off as I look around at the hundred or so men that were accompanying the king. He laughs at my look before beckoning over another blonde man.

“Fandral, take the others and ride on. I will return in about an hour.”

I do not like the way Sir Fandral looks me over, so I give him a hard stare in return, daring him to say something. Instead he doffs his cap, salutes the king and gives me a quick bow before jumping back on his horse.

“And where will you be going?” he asks.

At the king’s questioning look I say proudly “To the house of my father, Baron Rivers,” although I know he will recognise my father as one of the highest men in the Jontar king’s court, as one of the lords who had ridden out against him and then been personally pardoned and as the man who he had once spoken to very harshly for marrying above his station. But it is common enough to ignore these sorts of things. We all know each other, and we tend to forget we were all once loyal to King Thrymr.

Fandral’s raised eyebrow makes it clear what he thinks, but signals to the other men and they ride off.

Once the dust has settled I turn to the king and say slightly defensively “My father has been forgiven and his title restored. You yourself forgave him after the battle.”

“I know. And I remember your father, and your mother. I’ve known them since I was a boy. I’m only surprised they never introduced us.” He grins.

I roll my eyes and laugh. This is a man who is notorious for seduction, and his list of ‘conquests’ is certainly long. No parent valuing their child’s honour would let them meet him. “ We should probably start off. It is only a short walk to my father’s house.”

The king turns to my boys and asks, “Do you want a ride boys?”, and helps them up into the saddle once they reply. As soon as they’re steady he wraps the reigns around his arm and offers me his other. As we walk I have to resist the urge to lean into him, and I can feel the warmth of his body even through all our clothing. We don’t talk, but the silence is far from uncomfortable, and my boys are certainly enjoying themselves. I look ahead to the house and I can see the twitch of the curtain that shows my mother had been watching from the window, no doubt wishing for this very thing to happen. 

A stable hand rushes up once we reach the house, and he takes the reign and leads the king’s horse into the stable, my boys still high up in the saddle. My mother is waiting at the door, and she sinks into a graceful curtsy as the king approaches.

“Your Grace,” she says, as if this is a perfectly ordinary situation. “You are most welcome.

“Good day Lady Rivers. Could I trouble you for a drink? It is far too hot for spring, and riding is hard work.”

“We have ale, or some good wine from my cousins in Alfheim?”

“The ale, if you please,” the king replies as we make our way inside. He raises his eyebrow when he sees the table has been set with our best glasses and jugs of both the ale and the wine. “Were you expecting company?”

My mother laughs. “I suspected you would stop. There is not a man in the world who could ride past my son, particularly when he sets his mind to something.”

He laughs along, before turning to me with a smile. “I’m sure. A man would have to be blind to ride past you.”

I want to reply with something witty, or perhaps provocative, but the moment our eyes meet I once again find my silver tongue leaded in my mouth. It makes me feel slightly better to see that the king seems in much the same state, but being flustered and tongue-tied is not something I am used to, nor something I think I like.

My mother pours our drinks and toasts to the king’s good health, which brings us out of our moment and back to the present. “Is your father here?” he asks me.

“Farbauti has gone to see our neighbours. He should be back for dinner.” my mother answers. She then hold one of the glasses up to the light, and tuts as if she has found an imperfection, which I know is impossible, because the glasses are polished every other day and handled with the utmost care. Even so, she curtsies to the king, says, “Excuse me,” and leaves.

The king moves to the seat at the head of the long table and gestures that I should sit at his right. “I will look into your claim, and do all I can to get you your lands,” he says as we drink. “But are you not happy living with your mother and father? They seem pleased to have you here.”

“They are, my mother especially is comforted knowing all her children are under one roof, and they are kind to me. But I am used to being master in my own house, and taking charge of my lands. And my sons need their inheritance; they will have nothing if I cannot reclaim their father’s lands. It is also that…” I break off, trying to put into words how I cannot stand the pitying looks I’ve been receiving ever since they told me my husband was dead. I hate the thought of living off the charity of others for the rest of my life. Call it pride or ambition, but I need something more. But when I look up at the king something in his eyes tells me he understands.

“I know,” he says. “These have been hard times, for all of us. But if I can hold my throne I swear, I will make the law run through the land, and pray to God, your boys will grow up in a country free of war.” I hum in understanding, and he asks me, “Are you loyal to King Thrymr? Your family were loyal Jontar. Do you follow them?”

It is impossible to deny our history, so I don’t bother. My father was one of the great lords and my mother was the first lady of Queen Freyja’s court. She would have seen the Duke’s young son a dozen times, and I know there was a fierce fight between my parents and brother at Calais with this young man and his allies, back when they were traitors and exiles. So who could have seen this coming? The Duke of Valhalla’s young, arrogant son is now our king, and I must now plead for my rightful lands to be restored. Under the table I draw a circle with my finger, the sign of the wheel of fortune that I have seen my mother make so many times. Turning back to the king I choose my words carefully, “My parents were very great, but we accept your rule now.”

“How very sensible of you, considering I won.”

I scoff, and lean back in my chair as he goes on.

“Thrymr has nothing but a handful of castles and no way to raise a decent army. And Freyja cannot keep bringing in foreigners to fight our people. Once I win I will reward those who have fought with me, and pardon those who fought against. But this cannot go on.”

“You go north now?” I ask.

“Yes. This country needs peace – with the Vanir and with each other. Nothing makes a country sicker than civil war. We should all be Aesir, not Jotunheim against Valhalla. It has to end, and I will be the one to end it. This year if I can.” At my look he smiles. “I shall try to keep it from your door, but be assured it must be done. There are those who I’ve pardoned who have turned traitor once again and joined with Thrymr.”

“Will the queen’s army come this way?” Queen Freyja’s army fills all of us with fear; for all that my mother was the first of her ladies and her closest friend. Comprised of Vanir soldiers who hate us, and wild, barbaric mercenaries from the north, the queen’s army brought terror in its wake. Her promise that they could keep anything they stole meant they ravaged and pillaged all the villages they passed, raping their inhabitants and setting fire to their fields. She and her army were so feared and hated that the Capital itself closed its gates and refused her entry.

“I will stop them. I will meet them in the north and I will defeat them.”

“You sound sure.”

His smile is so brilliant and charming that I have to dig my nails into my palms to stop myself from doing something foolish.

“I have never lost a battle. I am quick and skilled and lucky. I am lucky in battle and lucky in love and I will never be beaten in either. I will beat back Freyja and I will win.”

I laugh, as if I am unimpressed, but in fact I have never met a man so sure of himself, so confident. It is infectious.

The king finishes his ale and rises to his feet. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he says.

“You’re leaving? Now?” I stammer, trying to appear calm but grasping for a reason to keep him here. In the back of my mind I begin to realise this has somehow gotten out of my control, and my wanting him to stay has nothing whatsoever to do with my jointure.

“I’m afraid so, Fandral and the others will be waiting for me. But you will write down everything concerning your claim? Names, dates, details and so on?

“Yes, but…”

“Then good sir I must bid you adieu.”

He is moving towards the door and unless my mother has thought to lame his horse there is nothing I can do to stop him. He turns at the door and takes my hand. He bows low as he turns it over and places a kiss in the centre of my palm, closing my fingers over it. When he looks up he is smile, knowing full well what he is doing to me. My scowl only makes him smile wider.

“I will come and fetch the papers tomorrow.” At my surprise he steps forward and closes his hands around my upper arms. “Of course Loki, I will come back.” My name coming from his lips is like a shock. “How could you think I wouldn’t? Did you honestly think I could walk away from you and not come back? O f course I am coming back tomorrow. Will I see you then?”

He is still impossibly close, and rubbing small circles into my arms with his thumbs as he holds onto me. The only reason that I am not furious at his ability to form coherent sentences is that I am close enough to see how much effort it is taking for him to restrain himself. I can see he is no better off than me.

“Yes,” I say, pulling myself together. “I will be here at noon, and you may stay for dinner if you like.”

The king nods as he pulls away. He gives a deep bow before he turns and strides out the open door into the sunlight. I stand in the hall and wait for my heart to stop racing. My mother comes in through the side door and comes to my side.

“He’s gone?” she asks.

“He is coming back tomorrow,” I reply as I walk back inside and all but fall into a chair. “He is coming back tomorrow to see me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story actually kicks off.
> 
> Comments, thoughts and reviews make me very happy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, there is some semi-attempted dub-con in this chapter. Nothing really happens, but I though I should put a warning just in case.

It is late that night, after Fenrir and Jorundr have said their prayers and climbed into bed that my mother comes and leads me out of the house. Under the sickle of the new moon we follow the path down to the river and cross over the bridge. As we stop at the great ash tree that rests on the eastern bank, I notice there is a black ribbon tied around its trunk.

“Reel it in,” my mother says. “About a foot each day.”

“This is magic, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Yes,” she smiles. “But for a good cause. Certainly worth the risk.”

Magic is forbidden. The church and the laws of Asgard forbid it. A charge of witchcraft carries the penalty of death – death by drowning or strangling by the blacksmith at the village crossroads. And such a charge is easy to prove and impossible to defend against, for in fact no proof is needed, just the condemnation of a priest. Those like my mother are not permitted their gifts, and she knows enough about the risks, having seen her share of men and women torn down by such charges.

Even so, I untie the thread and pull it in. I can feel something light tied to the end, although I cannot see what it is, as the ribbon reaches past the reeds and into the deep flowing waters in the middle of the river.

“What will I reel in?” I ask as I re-tie the thread. “What will be my great catch?”

“Your future,” she replies, leaning over to place a kiss on my forehead. “I didn’t raise you to be a poor and lonely widow.”

“Well what did you raise me for? What is my place in your grand plan where despite your sight and magic we seem to be on the losing side?”

We pause at the gate and she turns to me. “I raised you to be the best you could be. That is all. I don’t know what your fate will be, but I know I didn’t raise you to be a lonely man struggling to keeps his boys safe while his looks and his mind are left to waste away.”

“Well Amen to that,” I reply, raising my eyes up to the sky. “And please God may the new moon bring me something more.”

* * *

After writing out the details of my claim, I forgo my usual early ride to spend the morning in the yard with my brothers training. Although Helblindi is the only one to have ever ridden out with father, we are all trained to use weapons. In a country that has been at war for so long, it would be foolish to do otherwise.

After washing and eating, Helblindi and Bleystir ride into the village while I retire up to my room to read. It is late in the afternoon when one of the maids runs in to find me curled up in a chair by the window that looks down to the river, and tells me that the king has been spotted riding up to the house.  
Instead of rushing to the windows to catch a glimpse of him, as I can hear my sisters doing, I place my book on the table and walk calmly down the staircase, meeting him at the door. 

The king raises me up from my bow, and my world narrows to the feel of my hands in his, the scent of sweat and leather and spice and the warmth I can feel from being this close. When our eyes meet, I can see his desire written clearly on his face – a look I am sure is mirrored on my own.

As I step back, my father comes forward with my youngest brother Kari and they make their bows. Behind them are my mother and my two sisters, Edla and Thyri. All three curtsy, before my mother gestures for the king to move through to the dining hall, where the table has been set and the servants are filling the glasses and bringing out the first course.

The king takes my arm and leads us into the hall, stopping to seat himself at the head of the table, opposite where my father will sit, and motions for me to take the seat to his right.

Helblindi and Bleystir arrive not long after, and although they observe all the courtesies, dinner is at first plagued by awkwardness. Conversation is stilted, because although my family is deferential, there is no getting around the fact that we threw our lot in against this new king and lost. But that is how the world works now. Brothers and cousins fight to the death and their sons follow them. We have been forgiven and now the king, our enemy, breaks bread with us. My father and brothers are particularly uncomfortable, and appear determined to cling to their anger. I cannot see the point of this, for although this new king and his court are our enemies, they are the victors, and if we are to make our way in this new world we must make our peace. But then I have always placed practicality above blind and stubborn honour. I am loyal to myself, my children and my family, in that order, and I will deal with whoever I must to keep us safe.

But King Thor is charming and easy. He is polite to my mother and kind to my sisters, who have spent the meal staring at him, too nervous to speak. To my brothers he is friendly and amusing, and he asks my father about our lands, our game and our tenants. By the time desert is brought out, he is chatting with my family as if he was a long time friend. I lean back in my chair, biting into one of the fresh strawberries that have been set out, and content myself to sit and watch.

Eventually the king turns to my father and says, “As pleasant as this has all been, we should get to business. Loki tells me he is having trouble acquiring his dower lands.”

“I am sorry to bother you with such a matter,” my father says. “But we have tried to reason with his mother-in-law, as well as Lord Heimdall, and there has been no result.” He pauses, before going on. “They were confiscated after his husband was killed. Even if you consider him a traitor, Loki is innocent, as are his sons. It is only right that he should have his lands back.”

The king nods in understanding, and turns back to me. “Do you have the details of your claim?”

I stand and walk over to the side table, picking up the paper and handing it to him. He glances at it before saying “I will speak to Sir Fandral, and ensure that he sees it done.”

And just like that I am no longer a poverty stricken widow. I am no longer a burden on my family and I will no longer have to be grateful for a proposal. I have my own lands, which my sons will inherit after my death, and, when the time comes, I will not have to grateful for a marriage proposal.

“Thank you,” I say to the king, completely sincerely. “This means the world to me.”

“I mean to be a just, and honourable king,” he says, taking my hand and leaning in. “I would not have you suffer for my coming to the throne.”

Although I have certainly suffered already, I cannot help but be touched at his raw desire to spare me any pain.

“More wine?” My mother asks, throwing a quick glace at my father.

“No, no. I’m afraid I must go,” the king says. “But perhaps you would show me around your garden before I go?”

It’s a transparent ruse, but I care little. My father moves to offer his company but before he can say anything there is a soft thump and he winces. My mother, looking completely innocent, turns to the king.

“Loki would be happy to go,” she says quickly, waving us out of the room.

We slip out the door and down the steps to the garden. Once again he takes my arm and tucks it against his own. The night is warm, but I lean in closer. We make our way along the looped stone path, walking past the new white buds of the rose bushes, past the citrus trees lining the path and past the flowering lavender, the sharp fragrances mixing until I feel light headed.

We pause by a willow tree, and if I look carefully I can see where the path slopes down to the river, where my mother’s ribbon is tied to the tree.

“I don’t have much time,” he says. “My enemies are mustering once again. Thrymr will come out and lead his army, if he has his wits about him, and Freyja no doubt plans to land an army to support him. I must ride out to meet them, and soon.”

He sighs, and for a moment I can see how weary he is.

“As much as I might wish it otherwise, death and warfare seem to be constant companions of mine, though it should be no surprise for a king who picked his crown up from the battlefield.”

He pauses again, and then releases my arm before taking my face in his hands.

“May I…send someone, a pageboy, to bring you to me tomorrow night? I swear I have never felt about anyone one as I do you, Loki Laufeyson. I have a longing so strong that I cannot think and I cannot sleep. I ask you, no, I beg you, not as your king, not even as a soldier, but as a man, to the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Please, come to me. To fulfil what may well be my last wish, would you come to me tomorrow night?”

I am frozen, my mind is in turmoil. I knew this was coming, and God help me I am struggling to find a reason to say no.

“Loki,” he whispers, leaning even closer, his lips almost brushing my forehead. “I may never have a chance to ask this of you again. In fact, I may never ask anyone again. There will be no dishonour in this.”

I shake my head. “My Lord, Your Grace…”

“Thor,” he interrupts. “At this moment I am simply Thor. Please, no titles here.”

“Thor,” I say, despite everything, liking the feel of his name on my tongue. “I cannot. I would not bring that shame on myself, or my family.”

“Are you not lonely?” he asks. “Can you look me in the eye and say you do not want me, just this once?”

Slowly, I raise my eyes to his face, lingering for a moment on his lips.

“My God,” he breathes. “I have to have you.”

“I cannot,” I say again, as I meet his eyes. “Whatever I may wish, I cannot dishonour my name.”

“Whatever you may wish?” he repeats, his face brightening. “So you do want me?”

“I shouldn’t tell you. I can’t tell you.” 

“Then you will come?” Thor asks, confident now that he will have me.

“No,” I say.

“Then you would have me leave? You would have me walk away without…” he shakes his head, and then leans down, brushing his thumbs along my cheekbones. The kiss is chaste, a simple press of his lips against mine, but I part my lips and hear Thor’s groan as he moves to deepen the kiss.

I step back, breathless, and he follows.

“I will come back tomorrow, in the evening. Will you meet me, at the oak tree, where I first saw you? Please Loki.” He is begging now. “If nothing else, let me say goodbye. I need to see you, one last time before I ride north.”

“Yes,” I reply, clenching my hands behind my back to steady them. “I will meet you, tomorrow, by the tree. To say goodbye.” I emphasise. 

He nods, before turning on his heel and striding back to the house. He walks around to the stables and a minute later I see him ride back along the road. Once he has ridden out of my sight I make my way down to the bridge where I untie the ribbon, reel it in and re-tie it. I try to concentrate on what I should be doing next, or even on the feeling of relief at having regained my lands, but all I can think about is that kiss, and the thought of seeing him again. I know I will be getting very little sleep tonight. 

* * *

The next morning I ride out further than usual. I avoid the village and instead ride out to the fields, stopping only when I reach the edge of the woods and the manor is long out of sight. 

I have always loved riding, and today it gives me an opportunity to organize my thoughts. For all that the king is a notorious seducer, he doesn’t particularly strike me as a proficient liar, so I have no reason to doubt his proclaimed passion. He wants me, of that I am certain, though I have yet to figure out just how long it would take before he moved on. 

And God help me, I want him too. This is nothing like the mutual affection I felt with Angrboda, the boyish crush back when I was a youth in his parents’ house learning to run an estate and flushed whenever he complimented me. I am older now, too old for such innocence, and what I feel when I merely think of the king is far from innocent. 

So though I have no plans of giving in, I will go tonight, if only to say goodbye, because the very thought of never seeing him again is like a solid weight in my stomach.

It is noon by the time I make my way back to the house, and in my absence, a letter has arrived from the king, saying that I can be assured of Sir Fandral’s support in regaining my lands. I walk in on a family conference, because although my father seems pleased, my brothers, filled with pride and suspicion, doubt the king’s motives.

“He’s a Valhallist,” says Kari, as if that in itself is enough of a reason for his enmity.

“And he is a leacher, who has already worked his way through half the court. Why wouldn’t he try for Loki?” Bleystir adds.

“He would certainly be a hard man to refuse,” Helblindi says, turning to me. “I am worried you might feel compromised, or obliged to him.”

I bite down on my tongue to prevent myself from lashing out with what I really think of my little brothers’ meddling. As calmly as I can I say “Not at all. I merely asked the king for justice, and like any good lord should, he granted it. I cannot be bought with favours and I am not at the beck and call of any man, no matter how great he is.”

My father shrugs at my wilfulness, but looks satisfied at my answer. The rest make their way out, but before he leaves, Helblindi comes over and asks me quietly, “If he asked you to go to court, would you?”

“Of course,” I reply. “The court is the centre of the country and he is the king. Why would I say no?”

“Because Father is against it.”

I shrug.

Helblindi narrows his eyes. “It would be foolish of you to sell yourself so cheaply,” he says in warning.

“I am no fool” I say to him. “And I am not a piece of cloth, or a cut of meat. I am not for sale to anyone.”

* * *

I sneak from the house as the sun begins to set, and I make my way to the great oak tree. I stay hidden in the shadows, prepared to rush back if I hear more than one horse approaching, because for all that he has been kind and tender to me, I don’t forget that this is a king and a soldier whose army rapes and murders and pillages. He is not a chivalrous knight, he is a boy who has waded through bodies and blood to gain his crown.

But as he rides up alone, he looks like a knight, a knight rushing in secret to meet his beloved in the moonlit forest. 

“You came,” he says, his face breaking into that easy smile as he ties his horse to a branch and moves closer to take me into his arms.

“I was wondering, all day, whether you would come.”

“I said I would,” I reply.

“I know, but I couldn’t help it. I could barely sleep last night, and all day I have been wondering, I could barely concentrate. I lost count of the number of times I had to be brought back from my thoughts.”

I laugh, and loop my arms around his neck. “I know the feeling. But I am here now.”

His look turns considering, and slightly sheepish. “You will think me strange, and in fact, I feel as if you are driving me mad, but…would you let your hair down?”

It is such an unexpected request that my hand is reaching for the tie holding my hair back before I notice.

“I know,” he says at my look. “But all I could think about today was whether you would let me touch your hair.”

Slowly I undo the tie and allow my hair to fall loose. Thor gives a groan when I shake my head a little and he runs a hand through my hair, brushing it out of my face. I can see his desire clearly, but he steps away and removes his cape before setting it on the ground. He pats the ground and says

“Come, sit with me.”

We both know that’s not exactly what he means, but still I walk over and settle myself in his arms, my back to his chest.

I don’t know how long we sit there, but he asks my about my family, and I talk of my parents and my sisters, of Helblindi’s travels and Bleystir’s plans for joining the church, of Fenrir’s love of riding and how Jourudr’s tutors are quickly running out of things to tech him, and all the while Thor continues to run his hand through my hair.

His fingers stroke deeper and deeper, until they brush along my neck and he tilts my face up for a kiss. I open my mouth when his tongue swipes across my lips, and as the kiss deepens, he gently rolls us over so that he is laying above me. The hand that is not still resting against my neck slides down my side, pausing at where my shirt has ridden up to stroke the patch of skin before it moves to the lacings on my breeches.

I quickly break the kiss and push against his chest.

“I said no, and I meant it.”

“Loki please”, he murmurs, his head buried in my neck.

“No. Do you want me to go?”

“No, no no, stay. But please, let me kiss you again.”

I am tempted, very tempted, as he kisses down my neck and under the collar of my shirt, to let this happen. I am almost panting with desire, and between the little bites he is leaving, Thor is promising to keep me safe, to bring me to court and give me everything I could possibly desire. How long has it been? How long has it been since I’ve been touched like this?

But before I reach a decision I notice that in his lust Thor is no longer embracing me, but rather using his weight to hold me down, his knee pushing between my legs. I am overcome by a sudden rush of fury at the thought that he plans to take me as if I was a whore, some slut he could take on the side of the road. As if I had said yes.

He is fumbling with the ties on his own pants and I know that in a few seconds it will be too late. I grope around at his waist and grab hold of the knife resting there. My anger gives me an advantage and taking him by surprise I push him away, jumping to my feet with the dagger pointing away from me.

He is up in an instant.

“You would draw a blade on you king?” he asks in barely controlled fury. “Do you not understand what treason is?”

“I draw it on myself,” I reply swiftly, turning the dagger and resting the tip against my neck. “Because if you take one more step I will slit my throat and bleed out on the very ground you would have dishonoured me on.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I certainly would,” I say, though my hands are shaking and I am trying desperately to find a way out of this. “This is no game to me Your Grace. I came tonight because I could not bare the thought of not seeing you again. I came for love, but if you think to shame me like this, to force me then…”

“I could have that knife off you in a second.”

“Try it,” I reply, with a confidence I don’t fully feel. “And see what happens.”

“You wouldn’t” he says again, but makes no move towards me. We stand in this stalemate, for what feels like eternity, but after a moment I see him hesitate, visibly deflate as he gains control of his temper and his lust.

“You win sir,” he says. “So you might as well keep the dagger, the scabbard too if you want it.” At this he unbuckles his belt and tosses it to me. I catch it and slide the knife back in, still waiting to see what he does next.

“I will escort you back to the manor.”

“We cannot be seen together,” I say, with some trepidation, worried it might set off his temper again.

Instead he says. “Then I will follow behind you, like a servant, or even a dog, and you can revel in your triumph.”

I know there is no use talking to him now, so I turn and start walking, loath to break the silence as we back our way back. And even if I wanted to, I cannot think of what to say.

We stop at the end of the track, just out of view of the house, and I can see in his face the anger giving way to guilt.

“I am sorry, and I must beg you to forgive my use of force. You could say I am perhaps too used to getting my own way.”

I go to offer the belt and dagger back, but he waves me off.

“Keep it,” he says. “Something to remember me by.”

“Will I not see you again Your Grace?”

“No, never,” he replies, before nodding his head, and turning, striding off into the dark.

I ignore the part of me that wants to hide away in my room and let sleep claim me. I am not my sisters, who cry at every little thing that goes wrong in their life. I am not my brothers, who rage at the world yet do nothing. I am Loki Laufeyson, a descendent of the house of the water goddess. I make my own fate, and I am not defeated, certainly not by a boy who has never been told ‘no’ in his life, and no man will walk away from me thinking they won’t walk back.

So instead of going home, I take the path down to the river, cross the bridge and untie the black thread. Under the moonlight I reel it in another foot and tie it back around the tree tight. Only then do I return to my home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for taking so long to update. Real life got in the way and then I found myself lacking the inspiration to write. To make up for it, please accept some porny Thor/Loki, as well as some plot development.

I wait. For twenty-two days I wait, even though I know that I am waiting for nothing. He said I would never see him again, but still I dream every night of strong arms, rough, calloused hands and blonde hair long enough to twist my fingers in and pull. I wake from these dreams twisted in my sheets and shaking with desire and between them and the strain of constantly running after a pair of growing boys, I am always tired, and what little appetite I had diminishes even further. While my father thinks I am sick and Helblindi simply shakes his head mockingly, my mother, more alert to me these days, throws a sharp-eyed glace my way and insist that I am fine. My sisters on the other hand are certain that I am pining away for the ‘handsome king’ as they call him. This hits far too close to home and so I find myself snapping.

“There would be little point to that. Now leave me be.”

But even so, each evening I make my way down to the river and pull in the thread, until one night I turn to find my mother crossing the bridge and coming to my side. The river is running high tonight, lapping at the tree’s roots and almost reaching our feet. For a moment we stare in silence at our reflections, the waning moon reflecting off our dark hair and casting a silver glow over the water.

“You do it everyday?” my mother asks.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Good. And the king, has he sent you any word? A token?”

“No, and I don’t expect anything. He said as much.”

“Oh well,” she sighs. “Soon it may not even matter.”

We have been receiving reports over the last two weeks of the king engaging with the rebels, and wining victory after victory. But that is not what my mother is referring to. There have been rumours, more substantial than ever before, of King Thrymr raising a great army, an army that will meet with his wife’s Vanir troops and march south to the capital.

“If Thrymr wins and Thor is killed then the true king will be on the throne and it won’t matter what he thinks of you.”

I freeze at her words, my hand reaching out as if to stop them. Swiftly as a striking snake my mother snatches up my fingers, squeezing them tightly.

“What, Loki? What is it? You can’t bear to hear of his death?”

“Stop it,” I reply sharply. “Don’t say that. Don’t ill wish him.”

“He is a usurper and our enemy,” she retorts. “Of course I will ill wish him. And I thought you would too.”

“Well I don’t, so you can stop right now.” I pause. “He asked, the night before he left, to lie with me, as a last request, as a soldier going of to war.”

My mother laughs. “Of course he did. What man going to his death wouldn’t try to take advantage of it?”

“Well I said no, and God help me I think I regret it. And if he never comes back then I may regret it for the rest of my life.”

I move to turn away, but my mother still has a firm grip on my hand, and although I could break it, I do not want to risk hurting her.

“Regret? She repeats. “Stop and think for a moment. You were always better at it than your siblings. You are of the House of Jotunheim, and you cannot go and fall in love with the heir to the House of Valhalla unless he is victorious and there is a profit to be made. These are hard days my son and death is our familiar, our constant companion. He will take your sons and your brothers just as he has taken your husband.”

I flinch at the mention of Angrboda, and the threat to my family, filled with a sudden fear that her words are more than just an idle warning. “Oh shush Mother, you sound like Melusina.”

“You make me Melusina when you decide to dally with our enemy, when you walk around thinking life is easy. But I warn you Loki, you were not born in untroubled times. This is a country divided, and believe me, you will know loss.”

I grit my teeth and bite back. “I know life isn’t easy, and you speak as if I don’t know loss already. But tell me, do you see nothing good, nothing at all? As my mother, for all your cursing, do you see nothing good in my future?”

This stops her, and at once the harsh look of the seer morphs back into that of my loving mother.

“Oh Loki,” she sighs, releasing my hand and placing her own affectionately on my cheek. “I think, that if you really want him, you will have him, though I cannot say it will be all good.”

I choose to ignore my mother’s implied warning and instead take her arm and lead us back onto the path.

“Either way once the battle is over your sisters at the very least will have to go to court,” she says, as always, planning ahead. “They should have gone earlier, but I’ll admit I could not bear the thought of them being on their own, never knowing what was happening. Now though, they can go stay with our cousins in the city. Your Fenrir, will be old enough to be sent too.”

“No,” I say with a force that surprises me, while stopping so suddenly that she turns in concern.

“What is it Loki, what’s wrong?” she asks.

“My sons will stay with me,” I insist. “They will not go. They cannot be taken from me.”

She smiles sympathetically. “Darling I know, no mother wants to send their sons off into the world. But they need to be educated, they need to serve in a lord’s household. I sent you to Angrboda’s house when you were no older than Fenrir. I’m sure…”

“No,” I say again, and I can hear a tremble in my voice. “They cannot leave home. I am…I am afraid Mother. I don’t know why, but this is no mere whim. I fear for them and what will happen if I let strangers take them.”

“That is natural,” she says gently. “You lost your husband, so it makes sense you would want to keep you boys with you.”

“It’s more than that,” I reply, refusing to be comforted. “I don’t know what it is, but I just…it feels like…”

“Is it a Seeing?” my mother whispers. “Have you come into the sight?”

“I don’t know.” I am digging my nails into my palms and hysteria is creeping up on me. I can’t explain it, even to myself, but the very thought of my two little boys being gone terrifies me. The thought of waking and knowing they are not under my roof, of walking the halls and not hearing their voices or the patter of their feet. It makes me ill and I don’t think I can bear it. I notice that I am shaking, overcome with a sudden chill.

“Shhhh,” my mother says, pulling me into an embrace and stroking my hair. “Don’t worry. I will speak to your father and your boys can stay until you decide otherwise.” She pulls away. “Loki, you’re cold.” She touches her hand to my forehead. “Darling, you are like ice.” She shakes her head. “This is a Seeing, I’m sure of it. You are being warned of a danger to your sons.”

“I can’t be sure. I just now that I should never let my boys be taken from me.”

“Very well,” she nods. “You have clearly seen some danger approaching, so I swear to you, we will keep your boys close and safe.”

Despite her comforting words, I cannot manage to rid myself completely of the terror or the chill.

* * *

A week later I am again down by the river, reeling in the string. This time, however, I hear a metallic clink as something small knocks against the stones at the base of the bridge. When I look over I see something glitter in the water. Pulling up the string I see that on the end are tied two golden rings, made from the finest Svartalfar gold. Both have one flat edge and another forged into points, almost like those of a crown. They are different sizes, and I take the smallest and place it onto my right ring finger – it fits perfectly. After taking a moment to admire it I slip it off and tuck it into my pocket.

As I walk back to the house a horse rides into the courtyard, it’s rider carrying the banner of the House of Valhalla. He hands a letter to my father, who swiftly replies. The man bows in his saddle and throws a quick salute my way as he sees me approach, before riding off.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A muster,” my father replies. “It seems we are going to war again.”

“Us? Father surely we won’t have to…”

“No, we won’t be marching, but the king commands I send fifteen men, each outfitted and armed, to march with him against Thrymr. We are to change sides. I guess that was an expensive dinner.”

“And who will lead them?” 

“Sir Fandral. He will put them with his own troops,” he says.

“Did the letter say anything else?” I ask, desperate for any other news.

“It’s a muster, not an invitation to a feast,” he replies irritably. “All it says is that the king will be riding through the day after tomorrow and our men will have to be ready.”

At supper that night, my mother suggests that we should all go down and watch as the army rides by.

“Why would you want to watch?” my father asks. “I would have thought you’d had your fill of watching men ride off to war.”

“If he wins it will reflect well on us, and if he looses then no one will likely remember we watched them go. We should also donate a purse of gold to His Grace.”

As usual, when it comes to matters like this, my father defers to my mother’s judgement, although not without a certain amount of bad grace.

“I’m rounding up the men, I’m paying for their equipment. You’d think that would be enough of a show of support,” he grumbles. 

My sisters spend the next day in a flurry of excitement as they run around washing their hair and trying on clothes. 

Thyri comes over to me as I stand and watch in amusement and asks “So brother, what will you be wearing?”

“My black jacket with the green and black over coat most likely.”

“Really?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. “But it’s not your best, only what you wear on Sundays.”

I shrug, as if it matters little and I don’t know that the black and green coat suits me better than any of the others I own. “I’m only going tomorrow because Mother is insisting. I doubt anyone is going to look twice at me.”

“The king might,” Thyri persists. “He came to dinner and walked through the gardens with you, not to mention he got you your lands back. Why wouldn’t he look twice? He certainly looked enough the first time.”

I narrow my eyes at her, but cannot help but be impressed with her observational skills, as well as her daring in saying it to my face. Even so, I am hardly going to admit it, and nor do I wish to delve into the details of how much further than looking he had got with my little sister.

Instead, I give her a playful shove to the shoulder and push her back towards where Edla is discarding yet another dress, the blue and white silk joining the growing pile that covers her bed. 

“Oh shush. He did only what a good lord should for his subjects, even if he expected too high a price in return.”

Thyri immediately latches on to my implication. “Oh Loki, he didn’t try to…have you, did he?” She is delightfully scandalized, despite her show of sisterly distress.

“Nothing happened, and I have had no sign or word from him in a month. No doubt he has already moved on, so put it out of your mind and go get ready.”

As reluctant as she is to drop the conversation, she simply gives me a piercing look, one she has certainly copied from mother and heads back towards to bed to rescue her wardrobe from Edla who has given up on her own and is now rifling through Thyri’s chests. 

* * *

I am far more unsure than I led Thyri to believe as we stand along the highway with Father’s men. Despite my insistence, the thought of the King – Thor – turning his attentions towards one of his soldiers, or one of the court’s ladies, settles like a lead weight in my stomach, much to my frustration.

The girls are flittering around my mother while Fenrir and Jorundr stand with my brothers, excited at the prospect of seeing the soldiers off. The soldiers themselves are falling into line under my father’s direction. Their loyalty is to my father and for many there hasn’t been a time where ‘Lord’ did not mean Farbauti. They followed him when he was for Thrymr and because he says so they will now fight for Valhalla. The machinations of kings and dukes mean little to them. They raise a cheer as we walk pass, and doff their caps to my mother and sisters.

There is a sudden blast of trumpets and our group turns to see the king’s standards thundering towards us. The trumpeters lead the way, followed by the heralds and yeomen of the royal household. My eyes, however, are drawn to the centre of the crowd, where, under the fluttering banner of the sun in splendour, he rides, a head taller than the rest. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, sensing my mother moving to my side.

The king signals for a halt and climbs down from his horse, making his way over to my father. Behind the first group of officers comes a long, winding line of men at arms, followed by the wagons laden with food, weapons and other supplies. It all gives the impression of a small town on the move.

My father bows to the king. “This is all I’m afraid we could muster Your Grace, but they are good men, sworn to your service,” he says. “And please accept this contribution to your cause.” He gestures to my mother, who steps forward and offers the king a purse of gold. He smiles widely as he takes it, and kisses my mother on each cheek before his eyes stray to me. Once again the sounds of the men and horses drop away, so that all I can hear is the bubbling of the stream at my back and the thudding of my heart.

He walks forwards, like a man entranced, until he is at my side, his hand immediately cupping the back of my neck, the other resting on my shoulder.

“Loki,” he breathes. “Please, say you forgive me. I can’t sleep, I swear I cannot. All I can think of is how I wronged you, and the terror at the thought of never seeing you again. Please, say you forgive me.”

“Yes,” I reply, leaning into his touch. “I meant what I said, I am not some slut you can take on the roadside, but yes, I forgive you.”

He laughs softly in relief and I think for a moment that he might lean in and kiss me, in front of my all my family and his men, although I idly notice that my mother has drawn away my father’s attention while my brothers are more concerned with organising the soldiers. Instead he whispers in my ear.

“I can think of nothing but you. I am like a boy, breathless and foolish, but I know that I cannot be without you.”

I am unable to hold back my smile. The relief I feel at his devotion and the knowledge of being so desired is intoxicating. 

“Is this love then?” he asks.

“I guess so,” I reply. 

“Then there is no other option,” he says. “I swear I am mad for you, and whatever the cost, I must have you. Marry me.”

“I’m sorry, what?

“I mean it Loki, marry me.” At my sceptical look he continues. “I swear, I would not dare jest about such a matter. Marry me, tomorrow morning, at your little chapel. It must be a secret for a while, but I ask, do you want too?”

“Yes,” I breathe, barely pausing to think it through, or to consider the consequences. “Yes I will marry you.”

If nothing else, my answer is worth it to see the look of joy that spreads across the king’s fair face.

“I swear you will never have cause to regret this,” he says. “And there will be no husband more loving than I in all of Asgard.” 

“Tomorrow,” I say, smiling.

He nods, before schooling his features and striding over to my father.

“Can we offer you a refreshment Your Grace?” my father asks.

“No, but if I may, I would like to dine with you tomorrow as I will be hunting in the area.”

“Of course Your Grace, we would be honoured.”

The king bows to my mother and tosses my father a salute as he climbs onto his horse. He speaks to the assembled men, and whatever he says must has been agreeable as they raise a mighty cheer, but all I can do is stand there and whisper “tomorrow” as he nods at me before riding off at the head of his army.

* * *

I can trust no one but my mother with this, and so, early the next morning I wake her and tell her the King of Asgard wishes to marry me, and that she must be witness to this secret ceremony. She goes to work at once, summoning her page boy and lady-in-waiting, and they follow us to the chapel where we wait with the priest the king sent. We are not waiting long, as the king arrives shortly after and strides swiftly down the aisle.

“Marry us Father. Quickly, for I am in a hurry,” he says.

As the page boy sings the hymns and my mother stands by delighted, we exchange our vows. When the priest asks for the rings, the king winces, and it is clear that he forgot to bring them.

I cannot hold back my laughter, because now I know. This is what I pulled from the river. This is the future the goddess sent me.

“Don’t worry, I have rings here,” I say, as I pull the two golden rings, shaped like the crowns of Asgard, from my pocket, and the king himself takes one and slides it onto my left ring finger, before I do the same with his. 

And with that we are married. As he pulls me in for a kiss, it hits me that I am now a king of Asgard – or at the very least, a Valhallist king of Asgard. Breaking apart, my new husband – and oh how I love that word – turns to my mother and asks.

“My Lady, is there somewhere we could go?”

“There is a hunting lodge by the river that I had made ready,” she replys. “River Lodge,” she continues, speaking to me. I know the place well, and am once again impressed by my mother’s swiftness. She tucks the key into my hand and places a kiss on my cheek. Thor and I then turn and hurry out of the chapel, eager to reach the lodge as soon as possible. I swing myself up into his horses’ saddle and he pulls himself up behind me. His arms are tight around me as he grips the reigns and kicks the horse into a quick trot.

As we make our way along the river, I lean my head back against Thor’s shoulder and slide a hand through his hair before pulling his head down. Our lips slide over each others, and Thor growls into the kiss when I bite at his bottom lip. His arms tighten around me, and although he eventually breaks away, he still pulls me back against his chest. 

We ride in silence, and before long the lodge comes into view. Once I have dismounted, he takes the horse to the small stables at the back while I open the front door. There is already a small fire burning to chase away the early morning chill. On the table there is a jug of ale and two plates piled with cheese, meat and bread. 

I hear Thor enter the room, but don’t turn around until I feel his arms encircle my waist. We kiss again, and as he makes his way along my jawline and down my neck, both kissing and biting in a way that makes my knees weak, I pull his shirt from his breeches and run my hands up his chest, my nails scratching lightly against the firm muscle I find there.

Pulling away only long enough to remove his shirt, Thor leans back in and whispers in my ear.

“To bed, husband.”

We make quick work of the rest of our clothes, although we are hindered in our journey to the bed by our reluctance to stop touching each other. The reality is nothing like my dreams, as satisfying, albeit frustrating, as they were. Thor is golden, there is no other word to describe him, and I cannot stop myself from sliding my fingers into his hair and pulling him towards me, or licking along the definitions of his chest before biting at his nipple.

I soon find myself laid out on the bed, with Thor above me and paying particular attention to my collarbone. I drag him back up to my mouth and my tongue traces over his lips before teasing inside. 

“Dear god, you will be the death of me,” Thor moans once we break apart. The hand that until now had been caressing my stomach and hips, moves down to rest on the inside of my thigh. “Wait a moment,” he murmurs, as he moves from the bed and starts rummaging through the pockets of his clothing. He pulls out a small vial, and I cannot help but laugh when I realize what it is.

“You forgot the rings for our wedding and yet you remember to bring oil?” I ask. He shrugs and moves to kneel between my legs, before easing them up and apart. He uncaps the vial and coats his fingers with a liberal amount of oil. Leaning back over me, Thor captures my mouth in another kiss as he circles my hole with his finger, swallowing my moan when he presses it in. He is gentle, and I find myself glad, because although I am far from a virgin, it has still been well over a year.

Soon enough Thor is slipping in a second finger, and by the time he adds a third, I am more than ready.

“Please…please.” Under normal circumstances I might be ashamed for begging, but god, it had been so long.

Thor pours more oil over his cock, spreading it evenly before lining up the head and pushing in slowly. Desperate now, I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles at his back, and pull him towards me, forcing him deeper.

“Move,” I say, staring him right in the eyes. To my great relief he does, setting a quick, almost brutal pace that before long has me seeing stars. As I feel myself reaching climax, Thor brings a hand down and wraps it around my shaft, matching his strokes to the timing of his own thrusts. It only takes a few more strokes to bring me over the edge, and as I clench around him and dig my nails into his shoulders, I feel Thor follow me over.

Thor slowly pulls out, and careful to avoid landing on me, rolls to the side and collapses onto his back. My lower body hurts, but it is a pleasant ache, and I do not resist when Thor pulls me against his chest. With the beating of his heart in my ear, and content for the first time in a very long time, I drift off to sleep.


End file.
